Neil McCauley had learned to read people like an architect tracing a blueprint— the angles, weight, weak points. In this line of work, a single glance could tip the balance between life and death.

He sat near the end of the bar, his back facing the drunken crowd, a habit formed back in his time in Folsom, which soon refined in a dozen cities that never saw his real name.

A glass of whiskey rested in front of him, untouched by his lips. Something about this night distracted him from the drink, but he couldn’t figure out what.

His shirt was crisp of a pale blue cotton, buttoned up to the collar, cuffs rolled up to expose his veined forearms. No tie, of course. Informality was precious. Yet, the neatness of his black slacks and suit jacket gave him the look of a professional in his field.

Obviously, the patrons had no clue of his field— heists and firearms.

A soft jazz track flowed easily through the room, the kind of tune you don’t notice until it’s gone.

Then, he noticed your entry.

You strolled in like you were in your home, like you ran the place. McCauley glanced, then looked away, but something settled within him. Not your looks exactly (though you definitely had those) but the way you swept through the crowd confidently.

He’d seen that confidence before, in people who got somewhere, or people who were trying to get somewhere.

McCauley observed slyly as you took the stool two down from him. You were close enough for conversation, unknowingly a deliberate move on your behalf. Perhaps, you were looking for conversation.

He kept his dark brown eyes on the mirror behind the bar, watching your reflection instead of direct contact. A habit of his. He didn’t even realize he was doing it.

"Quiet night," he spoke up, voice low, with a slight shake to it.

His tone had that classic Californian lilt, worn over from travel. He hadn’t always been here. Past cities lingered in his mannerisms, grey with age yet vivid with life, and it clung his existence.

"Don’t usually see new faces in this place."

He turned to his glass, fixed on a single bead of condensation trickling its way down the side.

"I'm Neil," he said after a moment.

Names meant little without context but he gave it anyway.

Internally, he repeatedly told himself this was nothing. You were nothing. Just someone passing through on a quiet night in Los Angeles.

But something in his chest felt different. Warmer than it should’ve.

If he knew you were an undercover cop, he would’ve pulled the hidden gun in his inner blazer pocket and fired it at your skull instantly.